Precipice
by How Like a Winter
Summary: Jesse awakens in his apartment with little memory of the previous night, piecing together the traces of meth and other clues until he remembers just what took place.


**Precipice**

Jesse groaned at the sunlight streaming through the window. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulled at it in frustration as if trying to pull it over his eyes, and wiped a hand over his face. Suddenly, though, he paused, glancing around the room in search of the beanie that he usually wore even to sleep. Most nights, he threw the covers over himself without taking anything off or changing clothes at all, so he wondered if he'd simply brushed it off somehow in his sleep. But when he looked down at himself, his eyebrows knotted in confusion as he found himself staring at his own bare chest.

Breathing in short pants, he jumped up so that he stood above the sheets and realized that he was completely naked. His hand jerked out the wooden drawer and he rustled through it, seizing a pair of underwear and jeans and a t-shirt, and he yanked up the hoodie lying on the floor to zip it over himself. He swore when the zipper stuck in the middle, jammed no matter how hard he tugged at it. Glimpsing his reflection in the mirror, he winced at his reflection, hair spiked this way and that and traces of blue dust on his jacket that he brushed off at once.

"Shit," he hissed through gritted teeth, and hopped to the left, clutching his right foot where he'd stepped in a shard of glass. Surveying the room, he realized that at some point in the night, something had knocked over his lamp, and he trudged to the kitchen in search of a broom to sweep up the remains. What the hell had he been doing? The remnants of crystal gave enough away, but that didn't explain the lamp smashed to pieces and the clothes lying around as if he'd just ripped them off. In fact, by the looks of the broken zipper, he _had_. Tossing the broom away and sliding down the side of the wall, he pressed fingers against the side of his head, massaging his throbbing skull as he searched clouded memories. He remembered pain, a blunt force against his back that left him sore, but no image surfaced in his memory.

Rising to his feet, he shuffled over to the mirror, where he pulled up his clothes and turned around. Twisting his head over one shoulder, he saw the dark bruises that spotted the otherwise pale skin.

Now he recalled his back slamming against the wall, and he grimaced. Of all the nights to have forgotten…though, judging the state of things, part of him wanted to push back the images that rose to mind with every new discovery: the lamp, the clothes, the wounds.

Then his gaze, roaming around the wreckage that had become his room, halted at the sight of the wire frames on the floor where it rested on the opposite wall. Stepping over the shattered glass, he knelt and ran a finger over the rims bent into an indistinguishable shape, but Jesse recognized Mr. White's glasses at once. Shaking his head to clear his mind, Jesse closed his eyes, breathing in the memory of meth-stained breath and still seeing Mr. White's face hovering so near to his own. _Fuck, no._ A few moments past, he'd dragged up every trace of recollection in him, and now he wanted to swallow it back down as he remembered Mr. White stumbling through the door to his room, demanded the crystal, dripping sweat and tears that he tried to rub away before Jesse noticed.

"Yo, no way," Jesse remembered saying. "You always said—"

"I know what I said. But that was…that was before."

"Come on, Mr. White—"

"Just hand it over."

When Mr. White started to wrest it from Jesse's fingers, he tried to stuff it in his pocket, but Mr. White grabbed his arm and twisted it back and held up a fist. Jesse blinked and nearly shoved the packet of meth in Mr. White's face. "Shit, man, whatever, just take it." Then, because he thought he should, he muttered some warning about what to expect from the upcoming high, and he was pretty sure that Mr. White wasn't listening to a word of it. Later Jesse cursed himself for caving so easily, but that look in Mr. White's eyes, the raised fist, dead-set determination to get that crystal one way or another, Jesse couldn't argue with any of it, especially with Mr. White so unpredictable nowadays, and Jesse had long learned the suicide of getting between a man and his meth.

He looked away as Mr. White sniffed it up, or tried to, but at first Mr. White only watched it lie there in the little plastic bag. Just as Jesse turned around, Mr. White gasped it all in at once, and at first his eyes rolled back in his head, until a few minutes later when he started suggesting half-coherent methods to spice it up even more, and Jesse told him to lay down, but Mr. White waved him away. When he spoke, his words slurred into one another, and it occurred to Jesse that Mr. White might be drunk, too. How did that work, alcohol and meth together? Jesse decided then to wait for Mr. White to crash; that way, Jesse could get him on his side when the inevitable nausea set in, provoked by Mr. White's already-drunk state.

The sounds of that night echoed in Jesse's mind, the sigh of pleasure when Walt lay down and his eyes rolled back and he confessed that Skylar had found out everything, and fled far away, and taken Walter Jr. and Holly with her. The blood thumped in Jesse's temples and he flung the glasses across the room and remembered even though he was pretty certain that he didn't want to recall the details.

Tweaked for the first time, Walt had paced the room and ran a hand over his head until Jesse insisted that he sit down, and there, Walt's leg thumped against the floor in an uneven rhythm. For a few minutes, Jesse didn't say anything, but finally grunted and said, "Chill, yo."

"_Chill_, don't tell me to chill, Jesse. You can't even imagine what I'm going through right now."

"Fine, okay, I'm just sayin' it's a little weird and all that you always said you wouldn't do it, you know, and then you're all bustin' in here and—"

Then Walt stood up, and the chair screeched on the wooden floor when he pushed it out. "You too, Jesse. I want you to have some, right now." Cocked his head towards the bag and waited. He was panting, his forehead gleamed with sweat and he looked like he'd been through a war, and he was desperate. There is no way, Jesse resolved, that I'm gonna get high right now with Mr. White, he's out of his mind. And Walt must have seen Jesse's forehead crease and the step backwards, because Walt said, "I've lost everything, Jesse. You know I did all of this for my family, every last deal…and now they're gone. Do you have any idea—" He was balling his fingers into that fist again, and Jesse glanced down and back up—"do you have any idea how I feel right now? I've lost _everything_, everything that mattered."

How the hell could he respond to that, Jesse wondered, and he licked his lips to give himself a second, and when no words came, Walt continued, "Except you, Jesse."

Staring at the older man, Jesse held up the palms of his hands, backing Walt down into the chair again. "Okay, Mr. White, you're really not thinkin' straight right now, and that is definitely _not_ the best time for me to get buzzed."

"It's the perfect time."

"You're the one takin' mine in the first place, like, by the way, you're welcome for the free dope."

Walt's next words muffled when he buried his head in his hands. "Just listen to me for once and—"

"No, you know what? I always listen to you, and look where it's gotten me, huh? So just take your orders and shove 'em before I throw you out."

"Please, one time," and Walt raised his head to reveal eyes welling up and tear-stained cheeks. "That's all I ask. I don't know what else to do right now." His voice was strained and Jesse gritted his teeth at Mr. White's words. Jesse's eyes, unable to meet Walt's, slid towards the little bag, Jesse told himself it was just because Mr. White was baked out of his brains that he said, "I can't lose you too."

"Fine, you know what, whatever." Anything to get Mr. White to stop talking like that, some kind of crybaby, but then, those words were the ones Jesse had always wanted to hear, wasn't it? Regardless, if Jesse had to watch Mr. White all night, he at least wanted a little entertainment along the way. He snatched the bag and the stuff burned his nostrils as he sniffed it up, and his heart slammed like a car engine with the pedal jammed down when he collapsed back on the bed. "You happy now?"

"Thank you, Jesse," little more than a whisper.

Oh, he missed the warm waves over his body, the spinning thoughts and colors popping out, and he swayed back and forth, trying to stay grounded in reality. "Yeah, don't mention it," and he closed his eyes against the adrenaline that pounded in his veins. Keep an eye on Mr. White, he reminded himself, but a second after the thought passed through his mind, it was crowded out by the pleasure, the tingling in the back of his head.

"Jesse?"

At the interruption, he snapped, "_What_?"

"I need you to do one more thing for me."

"What is it, yo?"

"I just need…need to…." Without warning he was standing over the bed and pulling Jesse up to his feet, and when Jesse opened his mouth to say what the hell, Walt leaned forward and kissed his mouth. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ no. Jesse's blood ran cold and drained from his face, and his thoughts whirled, dizzy with utter shock and the effects of the high.

"Hey, what the hell?" His voice was hoarse and he nearly tripped over his feet backing away.

Walt grimaced, and Jesse thought incredulously that Mr. White seemed perfectly aware of what he had just done, even ashamed, but dangerously aware. "If you want, tomorrow, we can forget this ever happened."

"Forget _what_ ever happened? Like, what are you gonna do if I say no, huh?" Jesse glared at Walt's hands, the ones that had forced him to give up the crystal, and remembered that Walt rarely went anywhere without a gun these days, and Jesse had no idea what he would do if Walt pulled one out now.

"I would never force you, Jesse."

"Oh, well, thanks man, that's very reassuring. You're crazy as shit when you're buzzed, you know that?"

The reaction to his words hurt so much that Jesse flinched ever so slightly when Walt set his jaw and swallowed, obviously pained by the rejection, but what could he expect? Even now, Jesse admitted to himself that he longed for Walt to come to him instead of Jesse crawling back to Walt, for him to think of Jesse as more than just the loser hanging by a thread to an uneasy alliance in which Jesse was always the weak one, the stupid one, the one depending on the other. But he didn't think he wanted it like this; no, he was sure he didn't want it like this.

Though it felt damn good to hear Walt pleading like that, for once, like Jesse usually did, and then he wasn't sure at all that he didn't want it like this. Any other way, any other night, he'd be running to Walt. Jesse smiled at the realization that when once he had called Walt so many times after being thrown out of his house, in search of shelter, only to be yelled at and hung up on, and now, Walt was practically on his knees begging for something that pushed up the bile in Jesse's throat but at the same time fascinated him, because this once, he had whatever it was that Walt wanted so badly. Even though Walt had demanded the crystal, and he'd gotten it because Jesse had no other choice, this time Walt was not only asking permission, but he _needed_ Jesse's permission.

He found himself saying, "Alright, yo" with a shrug as if this came easily and he was used to it, and Walt sighed again, but with relief this time.

"Thank you, Jesse, I'm sorry you have to see me like this." Approaching Jesse again, Walt flicked his tongue over closed lips that parted hesitantly and Jesse's whole body stiffened. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Desperate as he was, Walt refused to simply take what he needed at Jesse's expense, or maybe it was all some kind of game to give Jesse the illusion of control, and the more Jesse thought about it, the less it made sense, until he just said, "Yeah, man, just get on with it." Against the side of his legs, Jesse forced his trembling hands still. His tongue felt like sandpaper in his dry mouth against Walt's.

With a free hand, Walt unzipped the hoodie and cast it aside. At either the contact with the cool air or the teeth that grazed it, the white skin of his neck broke out into a thousand tiny bumps. In a silent question, Walt looked up at the wide-eyed younger man, who shook his head and wished that Walt would get on with it, hurry this up if it had to be done. And when he shut his eyes, Jesse pretended that it wasn't Walt's calloused hands combing through his hair and encircling his wrist. Tilting his head back as a tongue left wet streaks that shone in the dim light, Jesse didn't try to imagine Jane, or anybody else in particular, but just that it wasn't Walt. The first few minutes were the hardest, just concentrating on the rush of the high instead of the tiny shocks of pleasure all throughout him. Those times with Jane, he'd lost himself in the pleasure, but that didn't happen now. Senses heightened by the meth and the knowledge of the situation, he became sharply aware of whose skin met his, every place that his body pressed against his burning with warmth both real and encouraged by the crystal. The hands, instead of roaming his hair anymore, tugged at his shirt now, hard enough that it might have hurt if there weren't so many other sensations pouring through him.

Any other day, he would have shuddered at the suggestion of his chest, bare now, against the other man, but right now it was as though as though he was watching a scene in a movie so horrific and yet gripping that he couldn't tear his eyes away. Face flushed and pants tight, his body responded exactly as he expected it to even while his mind cringed away. The euphoria washed over him again, and with it, his sense of Walt's own body and his overwhelming need. Jesse groaned, but not quite with pleasure, when his back knocked into the wall and then a few moments later Walt lost control, if he hadn't already, pushing past the lamp with such force that it shattered to the ground and went ignored. The physical arousal and the power of the high swamped Jesse's consciousness again when Walt pulled him down on the bed. Jesse knew he was going down, losing himself, they both were; there was terror of what was to come and there was the overwhelming desire.

Their hands worked together to remove any other clothing, on either of them, Walt's hands twisting and working roughly at first but then at once soft, as though Walt remembered who lay next to him in a fleeting moment of clear thought. Then both were naked and under the sheets before Jesse was aware of it, and they engulfed one another, over the edge together, shuddering through the rush and the heat. In the most blissful moments, Jesse forgot, where he was and what he was doing and who with, and knew only the illusion of control and the fire in his skin.

Then Jesse lifted his head, and stared again at the remains of that night.

Oh, how he had prided himself on his cleverness, "taking control" of the situation and "deciding" for himself. And it had felt good, in a strange fashion that he didn't understand, but he accepted. It was the one of the most bizarre, messed-up forms of sex that he could come up with, but it was still sex, and given enough time, even that would feel good eventually. Even so, Jesse didn't know if he wanted to taste lips or let another hand touch him for a good long time; he wanted to take a long shower, scrub his body inside and out.

Returning to the kitchen, he opened the fridge and rummaged through until he found a beer, and he looked at it for a second before shaking his head, shutting the door, and walking away. He didn't need to crash a second time, get all hung-over and throw up like he already worried he might do if he thought any more about the previous night. Right now he just wanted to sleep again, until he forgot all of this all over again, like Mr. White had promised.

_Control_? The man had come in, used his stash, wrecked his stuff, and shit, Jesse had been used like a line of crystal, snorted up and then over and done with, and Jesse laughed bitterly at the idea that he ever considered himself in control of anything that night. Hell, where was Mr. White now? Long gone, leaving behind only a ruined pair of glasses and the bruises.

Jesse swore, again and again, and he wanted to hit something, break something, but everything in the whole damn apartment was already broken.


End file.
